


A Cool Change

by msgenevieve



Category: La Femme Nikita
Genre: F/M, Het
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-09
Updated: 2006-01-09
Packaged: 2017-10-04 15:00:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/31515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msgenevieve/pseuds/msgenevieve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>You have ignored her mutterings for the last ten minutes, but finally curiosity and heat-induced irritation combine to get the better of you.</i>  Set sometime late in Season One and written for the latest challenge (heat wave) on the <a href="http://www.voy.com/133091/6238.html">FFMB</a> and for a certain Birthday Girl.  Happy birthday, <a href="http://nell65.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://nell65.livejournal.com/"><b>nell65</b></a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Cool Change

~*~

 

 

"This is freaking ridiculous."

Knowing she wasn't looking for an actual conversation, you have ignored her mutterings for the last ten minutes, but finally curiosity and heat-induced irritation combine to get the better of you. "What?"

She gives you a belligerent look, as if she can't believe you even have to ask. "I'm melting in these goddamned clothes." She rubs the back of her hand across her forehead, pushing aside several strands of sweat-darkened blonde hair, then blows out a patently exasperated breath. "You'd think we'd be able to lose the jackets, at least."

Privately, you sympathise. The air-conditioning in the transport is struggling and your back is already slick with sweat, your hands damp inside their Section-issued leather gloves. Publicly, however, you're obliged to dismiss her concerns. "That's not an option."

Her scowl should be unflattering. It's not. "Come on, Michael. Are you telling me that Section's never considered issuing a summer uniform?" She suddenly grins, glancing down at your legs, and you know quite well she's contemplating you in a pair of shorts.

"Full black fatigues are always necessary." Taking advantage of the fact that the rest of your team is preoccupied with either trying to sleep or checking their weapons, you reach out and catch her wrist between your thumb and forefinger. "Skin shows up too well at night." Obeying an impulse you don't bother to analyse, you push back the cuff of her jacket to expose her wrist. "Especially pale skin like yours."

Your thumb presses firmly against her pulse, and you feel a subtle acceleration through the thin leather of your glove. Her gaze locks with yours, the bright blue of her eyes growing dark, and you suddenly want to taste the sheen of sweat on her upper lip. She swallows hard, as though she can see the thought in your eyes, then she jerks her hand away. "Whatever."

She doesn't look away, though, still meeting your eyes with a defiant stare, and the temperature in the van seems to rise by another five degrees. When your earpiece crackles, you're disturbingly grateful for the reprieve. "Five minutes," Birkoff's disembodied voice announces to the team en masse, and you turn away from her. She says nothing for the final few minutes of the journey, and you think that perhaps – for once - she's just going to let it go.

She doesn't, of course.

As the transport glides to a halt and your team scramble to their feet, she's suddenly standing, leaning down so that her face is on a level with yours, her hand casually resting on your knee. "Maybe I'll drop a line in the suggestion box," she says, her eyes dancing with a wicked provocation you suspect will one day be your undoing. "How do you think Section would feel about camouflage body paint and a matching bikini?"

With the ease of long practice, you don't allow yourself to visualise the image she's painted for you. You do, however, let your eyes follow the tiny bead of sweat that's leaving a lazy trail from her collar bone to the hollow of her breasts for three seconds precisely, then you lift your gaze to meet her challenging stare. "Alpha point in one minute, Nikita."

Her mouth twitches with the beginnings of a smirk, and you can't help marvelling at how well she's learned to read your discomfort where she is concerned. The hand on your knee tightens, then she straightens up and stalks away, the heavy soles of her boots smacking loudly against the metal floor of the van.

You watch as she exits the transport, then pull the damp collar of your shirt away from your neck. Perhaps it would be best for all concerned if you organised for her to have a few days downtime. At least, you think darkly, until you can pull up a profile for somewhere cooler.

Alaska, perhaps.

 

~*~


End file.
